


In the Holes of My Sweater

by Lynx22281



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dean knits, Destiel - Freeform, Dragon!Castiel, M/M, Socks, Sweaters, unusual dragon horde
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 09:22:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2145432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynx22281/pseuds/Lynx22281
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean offers up an annual tribute to the dragon that lives on the mountain overlooking his village.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Holes of My Sweater

**Author's Note:**

> Saw a random post on tumblr about Cas discovering how wonderful fuzzy socks are for shocking Dean and somehow this story sprang to mind (even though it has very little to do with the original post, which is hilarious: <http://deanhugchester.tumblr.com/post/94865201155/i-bet-when-cas-discovers-the-treasure-that-is-fuzzy>)
> 
> Title from _Sweater Weather_ by the Neighbourhood.

Dean clutched the basket close to his chest and sighed looking at all of the other offerings piled against the torch-lit runestone standing outside the cave.  There were casks of gold coins from the merchants, jeweled encrusted swords and shields from the blacksmiths, baskets of beautifully decorated sweets from the bakers, bolts of brightly colored silks and linens from the dyers, leather-bound books from the monastery, and all kinds of other fine things the people and guilds of the town had brought as their annual gifts.  His dozen pairs of drab colored, hand-knitted socks were the best he could do.

 

After glancing around to see if anyone was watching, he hid his paltry tribute behind one of the massive shields.  The Great Dragon Lord Castiel probably wouldn’t like his gift, but at least he’d managed to give one this year.  Last year, his mother had been too ill and he couldn’t ask Sam to make the long trip home from the academy just so Dean could make the trek up the mountain.  Mary hadn’t made it through the winter, and Dean blamed himself.  If he’d been able to leave an offering, maybe the dragon would have blessed her with good health, maybe she wouldn’t have died.

 

This year, he’d waited until the very last hour of the last day of tribute week in the hopes that nobody would be around to make fun of his meager gift.  Of course, that meant he was stuck up on the mountain until first light.  The night was clear and freezing cold.  Despite wearing every scrap of clothing he owned, the frigid air dug sharply into his bones.  The best he could do was curl up in his bedroll on the leeside of a tree to protect himself from the wind and pray that he didn’t turn into an icicle before morning.

 

He hoped his socks would lend some tiny bit of luck to Sam over the coming year as he prepared to take his final exams.  It was all Dean wanted really, for Sam to be successful in his endeavors in the capital.  Sammy was definitely going places.  He was going to be mayor or a royal advisor someday.  Dean wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Sam rubbed elbows with the king before too long. 

 

Just as he was about to drift off to sleep, dreaming of his little brother’s future success, a crash echoed from the direction of the runestone.

 

Dean was instantly awake.  Instinct had him peeking around the tree to see what was going on.  A huge shaggy beast was pilfering through the Dragon Lord’s offerings, scattering the gifts left and right.  If something happened to the tribute, the village would suffer the dragon’s wrath.  Dean couldn’t bear the thought of something happening to his home.  He had to do something.  He tore out of his bedroll and charged at the animal, waving his blankets in an effort to make himself look bigger and more intimidating.

 

“Hey!  You!  Get out of here!” 

 

Dean’s attempt didn’t deter the creature from tossing an embossed silver goblet over its shoulder.  The shiny cup bumped and rolled down the pathway before shooting over the edge of the cliff. 

 

“Stop that!” he cried, scrambling to catch the loose pages of a book that had been flung against a nearby tree before the wind carried them too far.  If the stories were true, the dragon who guarded their village was fond of books and would be very angry to find one damaged.

 

Daggers, statues, plates, tiaras, torques, coins, all went flying over the side of the mountain and Dean could do nothing but look on in despair as the beast paid him no attention whatsoever.

 

“Bobbles,” it suddenly said in a voice that sounded like an uneven wheel being dragged over gravel.  The creature shifted, giving Dean a clear look of its horned silhouette. “Stupid.  Pointless.  Trinkets.”

 

Dean gulped and immediately fell to his knees, prostrating himself before what could only be the Great Dragon Lord Castiel himself.  If he was lucky, the dragon would keep ignoring him in favor of tearing through the horde of items left at the runestone by the villagers.  Curiosity getting the better of him, he managed to tilt his head sideways enough to watch the creature from the corner of his eye.

 

A clawed hand snatched up the huge golden shield that was propped up against the altar and flung it into the air as though it was nothing more than a child’s toy.  The beast huffed in amusement as it pinged off some far ledge and echoed through the valley below.  As he turned back to the pile to pick up the sword that had been standing next to the shield, he noticed Dean’s basket.  Reverently he bent down to pick up the woven container.  In the glow of the torches, Dean could just barely see the Dragon Lord bury his face directly into the collection of woolen socks.

 

The creature lifted his head and Dean could swear he saw a smile softening the dragon’s dimly lit profile.  The beast turned on his heel, heading back for the cave. 

 

Dean would have been spared the Dragon Lord’s attention had it not been for an ill-timed sneeze.

 

The dragon froze for an instant before whipping around lightning fast.  His shaggy skin fell off as great, horrible leathery black wings unfurled from his back, spanning the whole width of the rocky outcropping where the runestone stood.   

 

Dean was on his feet in a flash, running pell-mell down the path, though he knew the endeavor was futile.  The loud beat of huge wings lifted over his head, the disruption of the air nearly knocking him off balance, and he collided into a solid wall of chest before his mind even registered that the dragon had landed in front of him, blocking his escape.

 

From this angle, with the creature facing the altar and its light source, Dean got his first full look at the Dragon Lord.  He was roughly Dean’s height, except for the spiraling ram’s horns that curled up from the sides of his head that gave him an advantage of a couple of inches.  Thick, dark hair was tousled between the obsidian horns.  His eyes glowed like blue opals in the dim torchlight.  Iridescent black scales cascaded down the sides of his neck and over his shoulders, but his torso was smooth, pale skin that tapered to narrow hips covered in the same dark scales as his shoulders. 

 

Dean might have thought him to be handsome if he wasn’t about to wet his pants.

 

The dragon flexed his wings, arching them high over Dean’s head in a display of dominance.  He stepped closer, breaking into Dean’s bubble of personal space.  Dean fell to his knees, with his head bowed, baring his neck, something he would never do in a fight against another man, but he would not risk bringing this dragon’s rage on his village by offering anything other than submission.

 

Dean prayed that death would be swift, that Sam would forget him, that he’d get to see his mother in the afterlife, that Ellen would look after Impala, that Bobby would be able to handle the flock without him.

 

He wasn’t expecting the creature to place its nose against the back of his neck and inhale, and he definitely wasn’t expecting the beast to start purring like a damned barn cat.

 

“Mmm,” the Dragon Lord rumbled, sending a wave of gooseflesh down Dean’s neck.  With one hand, he grabbed Dean’s shoulder, lifting him up from the ground and with the other, he thrust the basket of socks at Dean’s chest before turning back to the cave.

 

Dean stood on the path, once more clutching his basket.  He had no idea what the hell just happened.  Was his gift being rejected?  He’d never heard tell of an offering being returned to its giver.  Of course, socks were a dumb tribute.  Nobody ever liked getting socks at Yuletide.  Socks were what presents were stuffed in; they were not presents themselves.  Why would a dragon, who was wooed with the most expensive, most precious gifts, want socks?  Maybe he should have parted with the only thing of value he had left – the brass amulet he wore on a leather cord around his neck.  It had been belonged to his mother, passed down through the generations of her family.  Dean’s shoulders sagged.  There would be no blessing for him again this year.

 

Up ahead the dragon stopped pick up the shaggy fur he had dropped earlier and looked over his shoulder.  He huffed impatiently.  “Come.”

 

Gift rejected or not, one simply did not refuse the command of the Dragon Lord, so Dean trotted to catch up to the creature.  He followed him past the runestone and its decimated pile of goods, past the mouth of the cave, through a winding corridor, and finally into a massive cavern covered in treasure. 

 

The dragon’s horde was very precisely organized.  Weapons were stacked neatly against the wall; some of the most stunning pieces were even hanging on the wall.  Chests of gold and jewels came next with their lids open to reveal gold coins, silver bars, cut precious stones, and exquisitely designed jewelry.  A sea of rich fabrics of all kinds and in a rainbow of colors hung from the rafters.  There were dozens of shelves of books and tables of parchments, inkwells, and quill pens.  Finely woven rugs covered every inch of the cavern floor and beautifully illustrated tapestries hung from the wall space not occupied by weaponry.

 

The dragon led Dean past all of the finery on display, down a narrow corridor to a much smaller chamber lit by a warm fire burning on an iron brazier.  Most of the room was taken up by a very large nest of mattresses, pillows, blankets, and furs.  The dragon crossed the room and knelt down in front of a huge trunk.  Dean expected to see even more priceless treasure hidden away and was very surprised when a jumble of knitted items in muted colors was revealed.  The creature stood, holding a ragged moss green sweater in his hand.  He held it close to his chest for a moment before thrusting it at Dean.

 

“Can you fix it?”

 

Dean set his basket of socks down on the nest before reaching out to take the sweater.  At the first touch of the super fine wool, he was immediately taken back to a memory of sitting at his mother’s feet, pushing Sam’s cradle while Mary’s knitting needles clicked in time with her storytelling.  This was one of her sweaters that she had sent in tribute many years ago.  It was unraveling from two vertical cuts made up the back. 

 

“Are you the maker?” the dragon asked, almost shyly.

 

Dean forgot about his fear and walked past the creature, kneeling down to rifle in the trunk with his free hand.  There were scarves, blankets, socks, mittens, hats, shawls, and more sweaters all made from the finest wool his mother had ever spun and dyed.  He could still remember the stories she told with each one as her hands moved with practiced ease through the most complicated patterns.

 

“No.”  His voice was rough when he answered, rubbing at his eyes with the cuff of the sweater.  “My mother made them all.”

 

“She did not send an offering last year,” the dragon stated.

 

“No,” Dean said shaking his head sadly as he ran his fingers along the length of a purple and gold striped scarf.  “She was too weak to make anything last year.  She died before spring came.”

 

“Oh,” he said sympathetically.

 

With his back to the dragon, Dean did not notice the creature had moved until the basket of socks appeared in his line of vision.

 

“Did you make these?”

 

Dean laughed, humorlessly.  “Yeah, but they’re not nearly as good as anything she made.”

 

The dragon tilted his head, the fingers of one hand carding through the socks.  “I like them,” he proclaimed stubbornly.

 

Dean looked up at him skeptically.  “Socks are an awful tribute.”

 

“Giving the same copy of a ruby encrusted sword every year for the past 50 years is an awful tribute,” he retorted as he grabbed one of Dean’s lumpy gray socks and pulled it over the end of one horn.  “These,” he pointed to the trunk, “are all special.  One-of-a-kind.  Made with love.”

 

Dean turned back to the mound of knitted things, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile.  He couldn’t disagree.  His mother had saved all of her best fleece, her best dye ingredients, and her best designs for the Dragon Lord’s annual gifts, and she had told the best stories every night as she worked by the fire while Dean and Sam were tucked into their pallet.

 

“These,” the creature said digging his hand back into the basket of socks and pulling out a russet colored one to slide on his other horn, “are not perfect, but they were made with love too.”

 

They were.  Not a stitch passed where Dean wasn’t thinking of his mother and Sam.

 

The dragon set the basket on top of the pile in the trunk and went to his nest, where he pulled a wide, multi-colored scarf from between two pillows.  "This one is my favorite.” 

 

Dean gasped.  “I made that.”  It was the first thing he’d ever finished and he’d been so proud of it that he’d begged his mother to let him put it with her tribute.  The scarf was far from perfect.  It was made from scrap lengths leftover from his mother’s projects.  The edges wavered with rows of too many stitches and rows of too few stitches.  But he had cast the yarn onto the needles without his mother’s help and had neatly finished up the last row all on his own too.

 

"I received this many seasons ago.  You were very young.”

 

Dean chuckled.  “I was eight.”

 

“What is your name?”  The dragon stepped closer, lifting his eyes from the scarf hanging between his hands.

 

“Dean.”  He swallowed thickly.  Now that his view of the dragon was not clouded by a fight or flight response, he realized the creature was devastatingly handsome.

 

“I am…”

  
  
“Castiel.  Yeah, I know,” he interrupted with a timid smile.  Most of the villagers refused to say the name out loud for fear of summoning the Great Dragon Lord, but Dean seriously doubted anything of the sort would actually happen.

 

The dragon returned his smile.  Gently he motioned to the sweater still clutched in Dean’s hands.  “So, do you think you can fix it?  I cannot wear it without modification for my wings.”

 

Dean held the sweater out, studying his mother’s pattern and trying to work out a way to adjust it for Castiel’s ease.  “Should be an easy fix, no problem.”

 

The Great Dragon Lord grinned, wide and gummy.  “Excellent.”

 

*****

 

Six months later at the annual Dragon Council gathering, the other dragons snickered behind their hands at Castiel’s outlandish apparel.  But he didn’t care.  His sweaters and horn cozies were warm and comfortable.  Best of all they smelled like home – they smelled like Dean.


End file.
